


Asynchrony

by delgaserasca



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-22
Updated: 2008-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1630001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S7. Lucas tries to adjust to life after a Russian prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asynchrony

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Hestia8, from whom the idea of Lucas' readjustment came from; and twincy, from whom I took the phrase 'culture chasm'. Additional thanks to Denz for her last-minute beta.
> 
> Written for zara hemla

 

 

**asynchrony.**

 

 _Culture shock_ , he thinks when he rattles around his apartment, _more like a culture chasm_. It took him a while to work out the mobile Harry had given him. It was so slim compared to the ones he'd seen before he left; it looked like something Malcolm would think up. Some things were obvious - press in a number, hit green for go. It took him three tries before he realised you had to enter the area code or the call wouldn't go anywhere. Then he felt like an idiot. That's something he should have remembered.

The first time it rang he jumped, startled to feel the movement in his pocket. He grabbed at the offending object and threw it on the floor, all manner of worst case scenarios running through his head - maybe it was a plant, another attempt at an execution. Maybe it was a bomb. Maybe he'd been had. 

The screen light pulsated in time with the vibrations. It read: _Harry_. 

Lucas gave a sigh of relief, sliding to the floor and grasping for the phone. He was going to have to ask Malcolm to explain it to him. Again.  
  
  
  
  
He tries to pass the evenings by watching the television. _Eastenders_ is still on, the plots familiar despite the cast changes. He's flicking through the channels - more than five now very American, he thinks - when he comes across something set in the jungle. Somebody is about to eat... he doesn't know what that is and he really doesn't want to. What the hell was that? 

The next day at the grid he pulls Ben over and tries to explain what he'd seen. Ben laughs. "That's _I'm a Celebrity_ , mate. Reality TV. It's like _Big Brother_ but in the bush." The younger agent's smile falters momentarily. "You know _Big Brother_ , right?" 

Lucas tries to smile; it comes off more of a grimace. "George Orwell?" 

"Yeah, not quite," Ben says, looking worried. "They put a bunch of people in a house for 10 weeks without contact with the outside world. Then we watch as they all go mental. There's challenges and other stuff." 

Lucas thinks it sounds a lot like the prison he was in, except he was the only occupant, and the viewers were all FSB. Ben seems to know what he's thinking because he says, "Yeah. I don't think that's for you, really." 

From then on, Lucas sticks to watching the news. Or _Eastenders_.  
  
  
  
  
Computers haven't changed all that much. Malcolm sets up an email account for him to use from home, but he doesn't have anyone to write to. He wonders momentarily if Elizabeta has an email address, but then he realises that it doesn't matter one way or the other. He's not supposed to be in touch with her. 

He'd used the internet before but it took a while to get used to all over again. He didn't know his Google from his Yahoo, but after he worked that out it was difficult trying to decide which of the search results was the more useful. The screen was divided in a way he assumed was supposed to be helpful, but he couldn't understand how, so he just ended up clicking things by random and seeing where they took him. 

After the sixth virus Malcolm threatens to take the laptop away from him. Lucas wonders if that would be for the best.  
  
  
  
  
The car is talking. _At the next junction, turn right_. Obediently, Ros turns right. Lucas stares at the map, wondering how it works. 

"Satellite navigation," Ros explains, without taking her eyes off the road. "It's supposed to make life easier but it has been known to drive people to vehicular homicide. Doesn't always work. They come cheap now, though, so you'll find one in most cars." 

"How does it know where you need to go?" 

"You tell it." 

"Right." 

Ros shoots him a look from the corner of her eye. "It's got a keypad interface. You type in your destination and it talks you round to it. If it can find the satellite, which isn't guaranteed." 

_You have missed the turning_ , the machine interrupts with a saccharine tone. _Take the next left_. Ros mutters something unintelligible under her breath and jabs at the screen a couple of times. _You have missed the turning; take the next left_. "Shut up," she hisses. 

Lucas is quietly impressed. "Looks like a good bit of kit." 

Ros sniffs derisively. "Wait until it drives you into the Thames, then tell me what you think of it."  
  
  
  
  
He comes to rely on the staples of the world - telephone boxes, newspapers, chocolate digestives - to bring him back into sync with everyone else. His phone has a camera which he only realised when he tried to send Ros a text and ended up snapping a shot of his shoes. 

He tries to go out at least once a week and sit in a pub with normal haven't-been-incarcerated-in-a-Russian-prison-for-eight-years people. There's always football showing and it's reassuring to know that some things will never change. The fashions take him by surprise sometimes but the women here are as forward as the whores in Russia. He thinks of Elizabeta, of her softness and quiet, and he wants to see her again. 

When he gets back to the apartment he sits down with a pen and a clean sheet of paper and begins to write to her. His motor functions, like everything else, take a while to warm up; he hasn't had to write for a long time, and his fingers have been broken, healed and broken again. It's little things like that which make simple tasks - punching numbers on the phone, or gripping a pen properly - more difficult. His Cyrillic remains exemplary, though. How could he possibly forget? 

_Vyeta_ , he writes, _ptichka_ , and then he can write no more. He turns out the lamp, leaves the television on, and lies down on the floor to sleep.  
  
  
  
  
_Beep-beep-beep-beep_. The alarm on his phone wakes him up a couple of hours later, a shrill, annoying tone that pokes at his consciousness. He prods at the buttons ineffectually and then just gives up. Putting it squarely on the floor, he brings a book down on it - once, twice - until the screen shatters and the light dies out. Not much use for anything now, but at least the damn noise has stopped. 

He tries not to think what Malcolm will say tomorrow.  
  
  
**end.**  
  


* * *

**notes.** _ptichka_ is Russian for little bird, and is a term of endearment that Lucas uses for Elizabeta; _Vyeta_ is the diminutive of Elizabeta.

 


End file.
